


Just What is the Road Out of Hell Paved With?

by facetofcathy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-08
Updated: 2010-11-08
Packaged: 2017-10-13 03:19:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/facetofcathy/pseuds/facetofcathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written during season 4, and set post apocalypse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just What is the Road Out of Hell Paved With?

**Author's Note:**

> Comment fic from [Take a sad song and make it better fest](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/6222.html)

Yellow ribbon on a black road that doesn't end, tires humming and the wind whipping in the open window--it's enough. The wind is enough to scrub the smell of death from his nose, and to cool the burn of flame from his skin. Dean doesn't understand, doesn't really want to; he'd been ready to die, to go out in a literal blaze of glory, and then there'd been the sound of the world rending in two, and he'd woken up in the back seat of the Impala, soot and smoke and ash in his hair. The hot desert air had smelled clean when he pushed open the car door, so he'd rolled down the windows and just started to drive. He'll find a truck stop and a shower. He'll find a burger and fries. He'll find pie. But, for now the road is enough.

He keeps driving, beating time to Back in Black on the steering wheel, and he is, back from somewhere. He thinks he maybe did go out in a blaze of glory, flaming sword, the whole deal. The road is an empty ribbon of black, and the desert is red and ochre under a clean blue sky. The Impala is a bead on a string, the only thing that moves in the world, but he's not so sure he is in the world anymore, not so sure that he cares, either. He nudges the volume up a bit.

At first it's a black speck in the heat haze of midday, motionless on the side of the road. Dean keeps driving. The speck grows--taller and taller. When he whips by, he gets a flash, like an image imprinted on his mind rather than something he actually has time to see--a guy, tall with long stringy hair scraped back into a pony tail, a scruff of a beard, bony wrists and ankles poking out of clothes too heavy for the heat, bare feet. A Jesus freak, John would have called him, a hippie.

The music changes, the opening bars of You Shook Me All Night Long filling the car, and he slams on the brakes and throws her into reverse. He lays a lot of rubber swinging her around, but he doesn't care, because he knows that tall, crazy-ass fuck on the side of the road, knows him like he knows the sound of the Impala's engine when he lets her run, knows him like he knows how to breathe.

"Well, get in," he says, when he's laid a little more rubber down coming to a stop. "What are you waiting for, Hell to freeze over?"


End file.
